when I came to London I wanted to marry--I hadn't any
money, and I had to want. When I had the money--but that's neither here
nor there!" He frowned, fingering his pipe.

"I didn't ask her, Chris; I didn't think it the square thing; it seems
that's out of fashion!"

Christian's cheeks were burning.

"I think a lot while I lie here," Mr. Treffry went on; "nothing much
else to do. What I ask myself is this: What do you know about what's
best for you? What do you know of life? Take it or leave it, life's
not all you think; it's give and get all the way, a fair start is
everything."

Christian thought: 'Will he never see?'

Mr. Treffry went on:

"I get better every day, but I can't last for ever. It's not pleasant to
lie here and know that when I'm gone there'll be no one to keep a hand
on the check string!"

"Don't talk like that, dear!" Christian murmured.

"It's no use blinking facts, Chris. I've lived a long time in the world;
I've seen things pretty well as they are; and now there's not much left
for me to think about but you."

"But, Uncle, if you loved him, as I do, you couldn't tell me to be
afraid! It's cowardly and mean to be afraid. You must have forgotten!"

Mr. Treffry closed his eyes.

"Yes," he said; "I'm old."

The fan had dropped into Christian's lap; it rested on her white frock
like a large crimson leaf; her eyes were fixed on it.

Mr. Treffry looked at her. "Have you heard from him?" he asked with
sudden intuition.

"Last night, in that room, when you thought I was talking to
Dominique--"

The pipe fell from his hand.

"What!" he stammered: "Back?"

Christian, without looking up, said:

"Yes, he's back; he wants me--I must go to him, Uncle."

There was a long silence.

"You must go to him?" he repeated.

She longed to fling herself down at his knees, but he was so still, that
to move seemed impossible; she remained silent, with folded hands.

Mr. Treffry spoke:

"You'll let me know--before--you--go. Goodnight!"

Christian stole out into the passage. A bead curtain rustled in the
draught; voices reached her.

"My honour is involved, or I would give the case up."

"He is very trying, poor Nicholas! He always had that peculiar quality
of opposition; it has brought him to grief a hundred times. There is
opposition in our blood; my family all have it. My eldest brother died
of it; with my poor sister, who was as gentle as a lamb, it took the
form of doing the right thing in